


In the City Built Inside Your Heart

by intravenusann



Series: In a City [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Credence gets a wand, Love Letters, M/M, Original Character(s), Religious Content, Religious Guilt, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-10-30 23:29:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10887153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intravenusann/pseuds/intravenusann
Summary: Today is a good day, Credence thinks. This morning, he saw a witch. This afternoon, he has plans to meet with a sodomite. (A collection of stories taking place in the same universe as "In a City, Reconstructed," focusing mostly on the romance between Credence Barebone and Percival Graves.)





	1. An auspicious day

**Author's Note:**

> I take requests on Tumblr and these are the things I've written for "In a City"-verse based on those requests.

Today is a good day, Credence thinks.

This morning, he saw a witch. This afternoon, he has plans to meet with a sodomite.

Though it may be the complete anathema of a blessing, Credence feels blessed.

He saw that woman Tina in the crowd while his mother was preaching. It should not thrill him to know that a witch — a real and actual witch — is watching over him. But he dreams so often of that afternoon, that small confrontation between a strange witch and his mother. She fought for him!

Oh, it humiliates Credence when anyone sees what Ma does to him. She knows this, but says it’s good for him. It will keep him out of future trouble.

But this witch saw Credence at his most pathetic and now she’s back. He didn’t dare look at her. She did not look at him.

But it wasn’t a figment of Credence’s wild imagination. There was a witch. Her name is Tina, or so she told him while he wept into the fabric of her jacket.

His heart feels light behind his ribs just to know that it was real.

For so many weeks, Credence feared he had imagined it all. It would be like him to imagine something like that. He sees all sorts of strange things, he always has. But this strange thing was real.

“Is it ready yet?” Chastity asks through the door to the kitchen.

Credence startles slightly. He has been lost in his thoughts.

“Yes,” Credence tells her.

He helps to serve the daily meal while his sister organizes the flyers and distributes them to the children. He’s the only one of them even able to lift the massive soup pot when it’s full and hot. He ignores the way his hands scream in pain when he does it.

Credence eats less that day, knowing that the man he’s meeting this afternoon will likely buy him something to eat. This means that there will be more soup for the children. Credence can be hungry for a few hours.

After they’ve all eaten, Credence stays behind to scrub the soup pot and all the dishes.

But then he’s free, for at least an hour.

His stomach feels like it’s chewing on his backbone, but Credence takes the stack of flyers and heads out the door. He has a simple bit of charcoal tucked into his pocket. Spring has turned into summer and the sun beats down on the top of his head enough that Credence takes off his hat.

In the scant shade of an awning, Credence ignores the crowd around him. The crowd, as usual, ignores Credence.

“Mr. Graves,” he writes above an ink drawing of three nude women dancing around a fire.

“There have been no changes at all in Ma’s plans. She showed a particular interest in one of Modesty’s little friends, but I have distracted her for now. It was worthwhile to spare the girl from Ma’s attentions,” he writes.

“I do not know how I persisted in this life of mine before I met you. Since we met, I feel as Saul must have. The scales have fallen from my eyes and I am able to see what I could not before. With new eyes, I wish only to see you. I look forward to the times when we can meet more than food or water. But thank you always for sharing those small needs with me. Thank you for your time and your conversation.”

He signs his name hurriedly and moves down a few blocks.

When he sees Mr. Graves at the corner, Credence feels his empty stomach turn inside his body. He clutches the folded flyer in his hands. He walks forward heedless of anyone else. There is only himself and Mr. Graves in all the world.

“Good afternoon,” Mr. Graves says.

“Good afternoon,” Credence replies.

He holds out the folded flyer and Mr. Graves easily takes it.

He is wearing a coat despite the heat, as he always does. In some ways, he looks even stranger than the witch. She looks quite ordinary, like any other person might.

But Mr. Graves is exceptionally handsome. He always dresses finely, covering his broad chest and long legs with so many layers of expensive fabrics. Credence has been so privileged as to put his bare hands against those fabrics. Once Mr. Graves even held him so that his cheek rested upon his collar.

In some ways, Mr. Graves is much, much worse than a witch. Ma stands on street corners denouncing witches, but she can hardly bring herself to say the word for what Mr. Graves is.

It is a thing that Credence wishes he could be. He has fantasized that Tina would return and save him and carry him away from his life. But in the same time, Mr. Graves has stepped in and given him even more hope.

If he did not have Modesty to think of, Credence would beg Mr. Graves to take him home with him right this moment. There is nothing he would not do for this man before him, no humiliation or sin he could not bear. Merely watching Mr. Graves read the words he so quickly wrote makes Credence breathe a little faster.

Mr. Graves looks over the flyer for a long, long moment.

“Credence,” he says. “How have you been?”

“Well,” Credence says.

“Would you care to eat with me?” Mr. Graves says. “I thought we could walk in the park.”

“Thank you,” Credence says. “I would be honored.”

“Nonsense,” Mr. Graves says. “It’s my pleasure.”

He offers his arm to Credence as they walk.

They eat together on the sidewalk, so close that their elbows bump into each other. Credence hardly pays attention to the food as he eats it.

“Pardon me,” Mr. Graves says.

He wipes his mouth on a handkerchief and offers it to Credence. Credence can smell Mr. Graves’ cologne on the fabric against his lips. He hands it back, carefully folded so that Mr. Graves will not have to touch anything filthy.

“Thank you,” Mr. Graves says.

“Thank you,” Credence says.

“Do you have time for a walk?” the man asks.

“Yes,” Credence says. It’s still light out. There are so many more hours of light in Summer. He wishes he could spend them all with Mr. Graves.

“How have you been, truly?” Mr. Graves asks. “Your mother’s letting you have this much time to yourself.”

“Yes,” Credence says. “In a manner.”

“I would rather you be free to do what you please with your time,” Mr. Graves says. “Don’t you want that?”

“I have to look out for my family,” Credence says.

“But what about you?” Mr. Graves says.

When Credence says nothing, Mr. Graves sighs. But he does not grow angry with Credence. He does not push him away. They continue to walk together.

“We could sit here,” Mr. Graves says, so they sit. It’s quiet and there is no one passing by. Credence feels sweat run down his back. He holds himself very, very still.

“May I kiss you?” Mr. Graves asks him. “Or is this too public?”

“No,” Credence says. “Please.”

Mr. Graves holds his face between his hands and allows Credence the privilege of touching his clothes with his bare hands. Credence clutches him desperately. Mr. Graves’ lip touch against Credence’s. He moves his hands and kisses Credence’s cheek as well.

“The loveliest part of summer so far is the flush in your cheeks,” Mr. Graves says.

The breath in Credence’s lung shudders out of him.

“I have a letter for you as well,” Mr. Graves tells him. This letter is folded in fine paper and sealed with red wax.

His seal has his initials, P and G, as well as the paw of a cat. Credence smiles at it before he carefully breaks it with his thumbnail.

“My dearest Credence,” the letter begins.

Credence touches the ink words with his fingertips and feels tears spring to his eyes.

The other words hardly matter. He will not be able to keep this letter, but each one begins with the same salutation.

“You are very brave to continue to meet with me. Should you ever think of a way that I can thank you for your assistance in this case, please let me know. I wish I could tell you that I have made more progress, but I have not,” the letter reads.

“I must ask you to be braver still, Credence. I will not be able to meet you in the coming weeks,” it continues.

Credence’s hands begin to shake.

“I must leave the country to attend to something. It is very important, but also very dangerous. I will meet you in August, if I am able. It will be in our usual place for a Friday, as I should be returned by the 6th of August. If you are unable to meet me, I will still wait for you. I will follow our schedule for a week of days.”

The letters begin to blur from the heat in Credence’s eyes.

“If you come to our usual places and I am not there, it will not be because I do not wish to see you. Please know that there is nothing I would much rather do in life than to see you. You say that these meetings uplift your soul and I must say they do the same for me. Please remain here, in New York, as safe as you can be, and I will find some way to return to you.”

It is signed, quite extravagantly, is so many curls of ink that spell out Percival Graves.

Credence swallows the lump in his throat. He doesn’t cry, but he could.

“Don’t go, please,” he says.

“I must,” Mr. Graves says. “It’s for work.”

Credence looks from the letter to Mr. Graves’ face and back again.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Every breath makes him shake. “No, I understand. It’s not as if you chose this.”

Mr. Graves nods his head and says nothing.

Credence takes a deep breath. He can do this. He would do anything for Mr. Graves and this is what Mr. Graves needs him to do. He needs him to be patient, to be loyal, to be here waiting for him when he returns from foreign danger. So Credence will do that. He must.

He looks at Mr. Graves and swallows again. Tentatively, he reaches out and touches the cuff of the man’s coat.

“Shall I kiss you again?” Mr. Graves asks.

Credence nods his head.

This kiss comes softer still and lingers. Mr. Graves breathes against Credence’s lips and leaves him imagining so much more that they have not done. Perhaps, when Mr. Graves returns, they will do those things.

Perhaps, one day.

Until then, Credence’s dreams will suffice. As they always have.

“Thank you,” Credence says.

“No,” Mr. Graves says. “Thank you.”

Credence feels like his entire heart is a bleeding wound, but it is still such a good day. There are still so many hours of daylight. He may kiss Mr. Graves once more.

“Would you like to walk again?” the man asks.

“Yes,” Credence says.


	2. An illegal wand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Percival Graves arrested Alexander Running Deer twice for selling wands made from illegal materials. Now they meet again, because Graves is looking to buy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone on Tumblr requested Graves getting Credence a wand. :)
> 
> Art at the end is by martythegirl.tumblr.com

Alexander Running Deer sits beneath the bare limbs of the Ash outside his home. He moved to the Dakotas specifically to stay away from other people — magical or not — so he frowns when he sees four figures walking up the road to his home. Coyote, who dozes with her head on his ankles, glares at him when he moves. **  
**

Alex picks up his walking stick and hoists himself to his feet.

He does not plan to have visitors. Not now. Not ever.

Especially not in the winter.

“Go away!” he shouts at them.

Three of the four strangers stop walking, but the third does not.

“We’re here to buy,” the man says.

As he gets closer, he begins to look familiar.

“Well, I ain’t selling!” Alex shouts.

Coyote trots through the snow to wind herself between Alex’s legs.

“To me, you will,” the man says.

Alex squints.

“I know you,” he says, when the man’s close enough for him to see the whites of his eyes. “You arrested me once.”

“Twice, actually,” the man says.

“You really think I’m stupid enough to sell anything to a man who arrested me two times,” Alex says, leaning on his walking stick. It’s a limb of the Ash tree, one that she gave to him freely. He tells people that it’s stuffed full of Coyote’s hairs, because he likes to make people think that she’s not just a coyote.

He won’t say what’s really in the walking stick.

“I don’t think you’re stupid at all, Alexander,” the man says. “I think you’re probably America’s foremost wandmaker, after Miss Beauvais.”

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere,” Alex says. “If Violetta’s so great, go haul her ass outta the hoosegow and talk to her.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” the man says. “Besides, I don’t have the authority to arrest you anymore.”

The man looks over his shoulder. “She might, but she won’t. The redhead’s a Brit, one I think you’ll be thrilled to meet, and the other man is the reason I am here to buy a wand.”

“I already told you,” Alex says, “I ain’t selling you shit.”

“Then perhaps we can arrange a trade,” the man says. “Mr. Scamander, if you please.”

The redhead hurries ahead in long strides. He has a fairly ordinary looking leather suitcase, which he opens and then disappears into.

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” Alex asks.

“Not yet,” the man says.

Graves, Alex thinks. The man’s name is Graves.

He hasn’t aged well, but then again neither has Alex.

“You have a stunningly handsome coyote, sir,” Mr. Scamander says, when he emerges from his suitcase.

“Yeah, Coyote’s a beaut,” Alex says. “She can be kinda vain about it.”

“Deservedly so, I think,” Scamander says.

He climbs the rest of the way out and then latches the suitcase shut behind him.

“Now, I have some things that might be of value to you,” he says, and unwinds a leather bedroll full of pockets and pouches and bottles. Alex recognizes shimmering Thunderbird feathers and ashy Phoenix ones, plus the bright colors of Fwoopers and Occamies and Wyvrens. There’s a braid of distinctly iridescent unicorn hairs and many other darker hairs that would probably tell Alex their powers if he just ran his fingers through them.

“We were hoping you might be able to help us select a wand for our friend,” Scamander says.

Alex blinks and realize he hasn’t for a long, long moment. His eyes hurt from the cold.

“So,” the woman says, having caught up with Graves and Scamander, “can you help us?”

“I guess,” Alex says.

He lets all four of them into his home, which is mostly raw wood all leaned together. It shakes when the wind blows. There’s an outhouse in the back.

“A wand, huh?” he says.

He looks up at the dark eyed young man who, so far, hasn’t said a damn word.

“For you?” Alex asks.

When the man looks at Alex he could swear he feels someone stomping across the ground he’ll be buried in, kicking up his gravedirt.

“Yes, sir,” the man says. “Thank you for letting us in.”

“I didn’t do it to be friendly,” Alex says.

“Alexander Running Deer,” he offers, holding out his hand to the man.

“Credence,” the man says, shaking his hand with a tender grip.

The man is soft spoken, but Alex’s hand is cold when he takes it back. Despite his warming charms, he has chicken skin going all up and down both arms.

Facing down MACUSA’s aurors didn’t scare him. Prison didn’t scare him. Losing Abigail hurt him deeply, but it didn’t scare him. Two things in Alexander Running Deer’s life have truly scared him: the thing he did to be called a man and his great-uncle’s bones.

This man Credence’s magic feels a little bit like both.

Alex turns away and looks through what he has, all the wands that he doesn’t sell anymore — at least not to just anyone. It’s an art, really, and the best artists take risks. America’s wizards, with their licenses and limitations, do not like to take risks with wands. At least, not up front they don’t.

“Can’t get a wand the proper way?” Alex asks. “Even though you got yourself an auror friend and the very Director of Magical Security himself. That’s sure something.”

The young man doesn’t say anything at all.

“It’s not his fault,” the woman says.

“Wasn’t talking to you,” Alex tells her.

“Well, you just oughta know,” she snaps.

As Alex digs through his drawers, his knuckles brush the locked iron box at the back. He feels the chill. Inside the box, something moves.

He ignores it.

“Here,” he says, grasping a wand. “Pretty pine thing, thirteen inches to match your big ol’ hands, and powered by Thunderbird feather.”

He holds the wand out to Credence and the young man takes it.

“Give her a whirl,” he says.

Tentatively, Credence waves the wand through the air.

The very tip sparks and then burst into bright blue flame.

Credence drops the wand to the dirt floor of Alex’s home and stares in horror as it burns right down to ash.

Alex shrugs.

“Something sturdier next, then,” he says. “Here, this one is made from the same tree as my walking stick, the lady right outside. Got a good core too, wampus hair. That’s what your friend Graves has.”

Credence holds out his right hand for the wand and Alex tilts his head to get a better look at him.

“Try your other hand this time,” he says.

“I’m not left handed,” Credence tells him.

“You might think that, boy, but you are,” Alex says. “Take it in your left and treat it nice this time.”

The young man frowns and uses his right hand to brush his hair away from his eyes. He takes the Ash wand in his left hand. For a moment, Alex feels hopeful. Credence pulls his hand back and strikes the wand through the air.

It promptly pops like a firecracker and shoots splinters in every direction. The young man cowers and even Coyote goes running for cover behind Alex’s knees. Only Alex and Graves seem unaffected.

“That can happen,” Alex says. “I think wampus just don’t agree with your magic.”

In the drawer, the iron box rattles. Alex hears it. He does not like that box and he would have buried it years ago if he weren’t so afraid of it.

Making those wands was a mistake, but not one that he can ever take back. It was after he got out of prison for the second time and came home to news of Abigail’s death. She had left him a piece of Maple wood in her will, from her home up in Quebec. He was hurting bad then and when creativity struck him, he’d wanted to put death into death.

With shaking hands, Alex picks up the keys to the iron box and opens it.

The three wands roll back and forth against the metal.

If this young man destroys one of these, Alex will be relieved to be free of it.

But what if he doesn’t? What if his magic takes to one of these awful things?

Alex looks over his shoulder. The young man looks shaken by two failures, though Alex has known people to go through ten or more wands in search of the right match. It’s not easy. The wand has to choose.

These wands seem to clamor for the chance, as though just being within a few feet of this man’s magic makes them hungry.

No, that’s not true. These wands have been hungry since the day they were crafted, tooth and bone set into precious wood.

Alex picks up the Maple wand and feels cold all the way down to his bones.

He hands it over to Credence with his jaw locked tight shut. The young man doesn’t ask any questions about the wood or the core. He doesn’t say anything at all, just takes the wand in hand.

More cautious than either time before, Credence twirls the wand in the air, holding it like a schoolboy might hold his pen.

Something wells up at the tip of the wand and drips down to the floor. It turns from drops to a steady stream, nearly the color of blood but brighter and clearer. It gets all over Credence’s hands and when he switches hands, it stops just as suddenly as it started.

Before Alex can warn him against it, the young man licks his fingers.

“It’s sweet,” he says, smiling. “Is that supposed to happen?”

“Goddamnit,” Alex says.

Credence’s small smile falters.

“No, no! You’re fine,” Alex says. “That’s your wand and you won’t find any other like it, so treat it nice.”

The smile returns tenfold, wide enough that Alex can see the young man’s teeth. He winces.

“Shit,” he says.

“What exactly is the matter?” Graves asks, then, in a tone of voice that Alex recognizes as a threat.

“I can’t even tell you,” Alex says. “But that wand… That wand is trouble. You need to watch yourself, boy, with that wand.”

“What’s in the wand, Alexander?” Graves asks.

“Can’t tell you,” he says. “It’s a tooth. I can tell you that it’s a tooth. A real family heirloom, actually.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” the woman asks. “Why can’t you tell us? I’m not going to arrest you, whatever it is.”

“Maybe you should,” Alex says, shrugging his shoulders.

“You wouldn’t,” Graves says. “You’re eccentric, Running Deer, not a _madman_.”

“I didn’t ever intend to _give_ the wands to anyone,” he says. “I just wanted to see if I could — if I could make something out of all that evil.”

It ain’t any of this man’s goddamn business that it was after Abigail was gone and the only sense that Alex ever had left with her.

“Didn’t ever intend,” Graves repeats. “You just did!”

“Okay, wait,” the woman says, holding her hands up. “Can we all just calm down. What are we arguing about, exactly?”

“This man used —”

“Don’t even say it, Graves,” Alex warns. “Not here, not in the middle of winter.”

He watches the old man’s mouth snap shut like an iron padlock.

“What are we talking about?” the woman asks.

“They can’t say,” Scamander tells her. “They… Oh no.”

He looks stricken and Alex can only sympathize. “Those aren’t real. They can’t be.”

“Got some bad news for you,” Alex says. “It was a family member actually. The reason we left Minnesota. Reason I ended up going to Massachusetts for school instead of Canada. Only my pa and his mama were left.”

“Merlin’s beard,” Scamander says.

They all lapse into silence, the lot of them. And in the middle of it all, Credence stands there, holding his sap-sticky wand against his chest.

“Does this mean I can’t keep it?” he asks.

There’s something dark sinking into the pale Maple like roots into fertile soil. Looking at it makes a shot of cold run down Alex’s spine and right into his liver.

“I think you have to,” he says, feeling defeated.

“No, you don’t,” Graves says. “Credence, you don’t have to do anything unless you want to.”

“I want to keep it,” the young man says. “It… feels right.”

Alex shivers. “I have no idea what kind of magic a wand like that will prefer. There really ain’t nothing like it in the whole wide world.”

“Then it suits me,” Credence says.

“Just don’t go killing folks with it or anything, alright?” he says, feeling like he’s begging for mercy in the face of something unstoppable and unfeeling. “Just don’t let it taste blood. It’s already hungry enough.”

“Credence,” Graves says, all tender like Alex used to say Abigail’s name when she was alive and still loved him, “are you sure?”

“Yes,” the young man says. He smiles.

The old man, Graves, puts his hand on Credence’s shoulder so that his arm fits around his back. Alex looks away.

“So, Scamander,” he says. “What are you willing to give me for that thing — I did say it was one-of-a-kind, right? And a family heirloom? Made it out of my own great-uncle’s tooth. And Graves, I’ll take your money, too, don’t worry.”

Scamander still looks pale from the earlier revelation. And Graves? Well, Graves just glares at him like the bitter old man that he is. But the young man in his arms looks like he could just about weep from happiness.

So there’s three things now in Alexander’s life that have scared him.


	3. A first kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Credence and Percival's first kiss.

He makes sure that he can lead Credence somewhere with few to no people and then brings up their last meeting. 

“Do you want me to touch you?” he asks.

“Yes,” Credence says and he’s looking at Graves the way he looks at food and drink, wary and wanting.

“I want to touch you,” Graves tells him. “Do you know what that means?”

“I think I do,” Credence says.

And Graves moves very slowly, puts his hand to Credence’s cheek, gives him plenty of time to pull away if he wants to. Credence stays very, very still with his arms at his sides. He stops when he’s nose to nose with Credence and staring into his eyes from so close that his focus blurs. Credence closes his eyes and Graves kisses him, just very lightly, and Credence jerks away.

Graves apologizes, of course, says, “I understand if it’s not what you thought it would be.”

“No,” Credence says, his voice hitting a sort of high whine.

He says it again, firmer, “No, it was. It was what I thought it would be.”

And that’s sort of ambiguous, so Graves is willing to say his goodbyes and be parted. But before they part, Credence says, “I can write more of the information you wanted. I think it would be better if I wrote it down.”

“Alright,” Graves says. “If you’re able to do that.”

“I am,” Credence says. 

Before their next meeting, Credence writes all that he believes Graves wants to know. But he also writes quickly, feeling that his heart might burst from his chest, about how he felt as though he had been struck by lightning at the touch of his lips.

Graves reads what Credence wrote to him right there on the street corner. Credence watches his eyes move down the misprinted pamphlet he used. He tucks the paper into his jacket and looks at Credence.

"Would you care to go somewhere else?" he asks. "The street here is rather crowded."

"Yes," Credence says. "I agree."

He would go anywhere with Mr. Graves, but the man talks about a small park tucked into a corner between two buildings. It has a gate and Credence assumes, perhaps, that the man knows who owns it. He does not, but he confidently opens the gate for Credence. 

There, in the shade of green leaves on a beautiful spring day, lighting strikes Credence mouth not once but twice. His breath shakes in his chest. Graves holds his hand most tenderly when he kisses him, and allows Credence to hold him by the shoulders.

They both know that what they are doing is illegal, even immoral.

They are lying to each other. They will both leave this tiny garden and lie to many others: Credence to his mother, to Modesty; Graves to his president, to Tina.

But in this moment, when their mouths meet lightly and then are parted, it seems a small and worthy price to pay.


	4. July 1916

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second time that Percival Graves arrested Alexander Running Deer.

The wind that comes in off of Lake Ontario that July afternoon is so cold that Alexander Running Deer worries it might hail. He wonders whether the new shingles on the roof could take that or if he’d have to apparate up there and fix them again.

Alex has just lit his pipe when a girl who can’t be more than twenty by the looks of her walks up the shore and right to his porch.

“Can I help you?” he asks. He blows his pungent smoke over the side of the porch so it won’t blow towards the young lady.

“Yes, sir, pardon me, but I’m looking for a man by the name of Running Deer,” she says. “I heard that he resided here by the lake.”

“He does,” Alex says.

The girl’s eyes widen. She touches the end of one of her two plaits like it’s a nervous habit.

“Do you know where he lives?” she asks. “I’ve been walking for a while now and you’re the first person I’ve come across.”

“Not surprising,” Alex says. “It’s pretty lonely out here.”

“Could you direct me to him, sir?” the girl asks.

“You’re lookin’ at him,” Alex says. He sticks his pipe in his mouth and smiles at her, pretty little thing she is. He’s reminded of Abigail by the way she wears her hair. He’s reminded of how he’d like to have a daughter with Abigail, if she’d allow it. 

“Oh!” the girl says. She tugs on the end of her plait.

“You’re Alexander Running Deer?” she asks. 

“Yup,” he says. A little bit of magic extinguishes his pipe and dispels the smoke so that he can properly stand and meet her at the steps.

“You’re different than I expected,” she says.

“Uglier you mean,” he says, grinning. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Mi Tang,” the girl says.

She shakes his hand when he offers it and her hand is terrible small in his.

“Why are you lookin’ for an old man on the shore of this big ol’ lake?” Alex asks.

The girl purses her lips and tugs on her hair.

“I’m having a bit of a difficulty, sir,” she says. “It has to do with a wand.”

“A wand?” Alex asks. “Well, you probably heard from somebody that I was a wandmaker, but I ain’t in that business no longer. Sorry about that, Miss”

The girl’s slight shoulders sag and she looks down at the worn wood of the porch.

“But what sort of a difficulty are you having?” Alex asks, despite himself. He taps the ash out of his pipe but his magic keeps the tobacco in place.

“It’s the permit, sir,” she says. “I had to leave school before I could get mine. My mother was very ill and she required me. But now I’m finding it just impossible to get my papers in order — let alone afford a wand.”

She lifts her round little face and looks at Alex with dark, pleading eyes. He can feel his very ribs crumbling inside his chest. He coughs.

“Well, that’s a very sad story,” he says. “But I’m not sure how I can help you.”

“I’d heard that you could,” the girl says. “That you used to…”

She steps a little closer and whispers, “Give wands to those in need.”

“And you think that you’re in need?” Alex asks. “You know, there’s a lot to be said for wandless magic.”

The girl’s whole expression crumples up like butcher paper.

“But sir,” she says, “what’s a witch without a wand?”

Alex steps back. The heels of his boots kick up a splinter on the porch. 

“Do you like tea, Miss Mi Tang?” he asks.

“Yes, sir,” she says.

“Why don’t you come inside for a cup, then.”

He holds the wood door open for her and latches it behind him, taking his wand from his pocket to cast a heavy ward across the doorstep.

“With honey?” he asks.

The girl smiles and hides it behind her hand. “Yes, please.”

He brews the tea and Mi Tang speaks of her mother, a witch from China. The authorities in California have cracked down hard on the witches and wizards, mostly wizards, streaming in from the East. They don’t know the laws and they don’t like them. Alex can sympathize.

“There’s more than one way to do things,” Alex says. “Yup, I agree.”

“I’m glad, sir,” Mi Tang says. 

She sips her tea and tells him that it’s excellent.

“Pear,” he says. “I think pear would agree with you. Let me see what I’ve got around the place.”

The cabinets are locked, but he knows all the words to open them. He opens a cupboard and the drums, the rattles, the wands inside all seem to reach out for him singing. He can feel them in his bones.

“Here,” he says. “Pear with a horned serpent core. You said that was your class when you were at school?”

“It was, sir,” Mi Tang says. “But, oh, that was years ago.”

“It’s not the fanciest, I know,” he says. “If it don’t agree with you, we could try something a little more exotic. Ever hear of a snow snake?” 

“No, sir,” she says, but she takes the wand.

“It’s a sight smaller than the horned serpent, but feisty,” he says. “Not like a dragon, though, they got a lot of those where your ma came from, don’t they? None here, though. Maybe some further south, but I like the critters we got ‘round here just fine for wand-making.”

“Do you?” Mi Tang asks.

“Sure do,” Alex says.

Mi Tang smiles and takes a few steps back with the wand. She lifts it high.

“Twinberry!” she says, loud and clear.

Alexander hears the sound of people apparating in behind him, which shouldn’t be possible given the wards. He turns on his heel and gets a cuff around the wrist for his trouble.

A dark-haired man jerks him back around and the cuff snags his other wrist as well.

“Alexander Running Deer,” the man says, “you are under arrest.”

“Shit damn,” Alex says. “Osti de marde!”

“For the manufacture of wands from unauthorized materials,” the man continues.

“You can’t prove that!” Alex snaps. “You can’t prove shit!”

“I think we can,” the man says, quietly. “You are also accused of the selling of a wands to an unlicensed witch, the selling of a wand to a witch under a suspended license, the selling of a wand to a convicted curser, and collusion to circumvent the authorized sale and use of wands.”

“Bâtard,” Alex says. “You don’t know anything. Who the hell are you anyway?”

“You don’t remember?” the man asks. “We’ve met before, Running Deer.”

“Why would I remember a shitheel like you?” Alex asks.

With magic, the man whirls him around and sets Alex down hard on his own kitchen chair. 

Mi Tang steps into view again, sidling up to this dark haired man. She looks up at him with wide eyes, but a hard mouth.

“Mr. Graves,” she says. “I believe there’s a commotion outside, my perimeter alert just went off.”

Alex laughs.

“Stay put, Running Deer,” Mr. Graves says. “I’ll have someone look into this. You and I have much to discuss, including why you gave a wand to a fraudster and two women who had previously faced charges of using unforgivable curses.”

Alex grins. “Was one of them Prosper Stowe? Because you know she weren’t never convicted of nothing.”

The man looks down his nose at Alex. He opens his mouth, no doubt to say something smart, when Abigail bursts into the room with her characteristic amount of force.

“Tabernak!” she shouts. “Alexander! What is happening here?!”

“I’m getting arrested, my flower,” he says.

She walks up and jerks his chair back by hand. Her long, dark hair curling down over her breasts as she stares down at him. She’s wearing men’s clothes and a leather jacket that still smells like the doe that gave its life to dress her. Her dark eyes are like smouldering coals. Her full mouth twists in anger beneath her pronounced nose.

She has never been more beautiful.

“Alexander,” she says. “What did you do?”

“Can’t say,” he tells her. “But I was just trying to do a good thing, thought I was helping someone.”

“You  _ always _ think you’re helping someone,” she declares.

“Who the shit are you?” she asks, looking over at Mr. Graves.

“Pardon me?” he asks. “Ma’am, you’re interrupting a very important investigation at the moment. This man, Alexander Running Deer, is accused of selling wands to known criminals — including some involved in a recent incident that took the lives of two aurors.”

Alex winces. He sucks on his teeth a bit, tasting something sour at the back of his throat. Well, he certainly didn’t  _ mean _ for that to happen.

“Alexander,” she says. Her voice drops dangerously low.

“You swore to me,” she says. “You  _ swore _ , Alex.”

“I didn’t do it,” Alex says. “I swear.”

“You swear on nothing!” Abigail shouts. “You could swear on your own family’s bones and it wouldn’t mean anything, would it? Mon ostie de saint-sacrament de crisse! It doesn’t mean shit to you, does it?”

“My flower,” Alex says. “That’s not true.”

“Ma’am, I can tell that you’re upset right now,” Mr. Graves interrupts. “But I’m going to have to ask you to step away from the suspect.” 

He reaches up and puts a hand on her shoulder. His fingers touch her dark and curling hair.

Abigail turns so quickly it’s like apparition.

Mr. Graves steps back and raises his wand.

Abigail raises hers.

The wand in Mr. Graves’ hand is a long thing, made in polished ebony and as straight as an iron bar. It has touches of silver. Alex realizes he’s seen it before. He does know this man — from before he was much of a man at all, just a mouthy little shit with all his hair cut off. Talked like he was from Belfast by way of Boston. Cuffed Alex the first time, too, with a smirk on his face.

“Mon tabarnak j'vais te décalisser la yeule, calice!” Abigail declares.

Her wand is a good two inches longer than Mr. Graves’ and made of raw maple as twisted as a branch. She holds it like a dagger pointed at the man’s heart.

“Abigail!” Alex says, hoping to draw her ire back onto him.

“Ma’am, I will have you arrested,” Mr. Graves says.

“You can’t arrest her,” Alex says. He realizes the second after that it was the wrong thing to say. This man has more hair on his head and some lines on his face but he still thinks, with that melodramatically long wand, that he can do anything.

Abigail hops back and readies a simple hex, but Mr. Graves is fast and Alex can recognize a curse when he sees one coming. He throws himself up out of the chair into the space between them.

That’s really all he can do.

“Alex!” Abigail shouts.

He hits the floor like a stone.

Mr. Graves has the decency to look surprised before he casts a reversal.

“Mr. Running Deer,” he says.

“She’s a goddamn Canadian,” Alex says, as soon as he can breathe again. “Don’t speak a lick ‘a English either.”

“I had realized that already,” Mr. Graves says.

“What does she speak?” Mi Tang asks. She’s holding her wand like she still expects there to be a fight.

“French,” Alex says. “I’ll go with you now. Abigail, I’m going with these bastards.”

“You’re going back to prison,” she says.

“That’s French?” Mi Tang says in the background.

“Yeah, probably,” Alex tells Abigail.

“I won’t visit you, Alex,” she says. “Not this time.”

“I don’t expect you to, my flower,” he says.

She reaches down and with a hand from Mr. Graves, the both of them set Alex back on his feet. His kidneys and liver feel like someone’s gone and stomped on them.

“I’ll go back to be with my family,” she says. “I didn’t want that, Alex, you know it.”

“I know,” he says.

Her eyes are wet as she shakes her head. Her hair gets everywhere. Alex could swear it’s in his mouth and eyes. Strands of it brush across his face.

“You swore,” she says.

“I did,” he says.

“Say your goodbyes,” Mr. Graves says. “You’ll be put away for a lot longer this time, Running Deer. We were lenient the first time.”

Alex rolls his eyes.

“Eat shit, you pansy,” he says.

Mr. Graves yanks him away from Abigail before he can even hope to kiss her.

“Bonne journée,” Mr. Graves says, in the most painfully European accent. It makes Abigail wrinkle her nose in confusion.

That’s the last sight Alex has of her, confused and offended with her hair all around her, and her doeskin jacket. She is the only human creature he has ever loved, he realizes.

“What was all that, Running Deer?” Mr. Graves asks.

“None of your goddamn business is what it was,” he says. “I ain’t telling you shit.”

“I think you’re going to tell me a great deal, actually,” Graves says.

“Again,” Alex says. “Eat shit.”

“Was she your wife?” he asks. “A sister? She seemed quite upset with you.”

“Abigail is usually upset with me,” Alex admits. “Though this was a little more than usual.”

“Was she unaware that you were continuing your criminal acts?” Graves asks.

“What did I say?” Alex says. “Eat shit.”

“You know, it’s really poor form to lie to the people that you care about,” Graves says. 

“Like you ain’t never lied to nobody,” Alex says.

The space around them is the familiar, grey blankness of a MACUSA interrogation cell. They could be in New York City or Albany or St. Louis; it all looks the same.

“I try not to,” Graves says.

“Well, clearly, you ain’t never been in love then,” Alex says.

“Is that your wisdom for the day, Running Deer?” Graves asks, clearly being sarcastic. “We all lie to the ones we love. It’s both cynical and trite.”

“Course we do,” he says. “I wanted her to love me. Watch yourself, kid.”

The man’s face twists up at being called “kid,” just like Alex suspected it would.

“You’re gonna meet somebody someday, if you and that lemon-sucking face of yours are lucky enough, who’ll make you wanna lie,” Alex says. “Just so they’ll think you’re a better man than you are, just so they’ll love you.”

“I highly doubt that, Running Deer.”

And Mr. Graves has the last word on the matter, because he can. Because he’s not a wand-making son of a bitch from a cursed family who never knew when to leave well enough alone.

Alexander Running Deer stands in the interrogation room alone and stews in his anger like innards in a pot. He tastes acid in his mouth. He wishes every awful thing a man can wish on that Mr. Graves. He thinks of Abigail. 


	5. December 1937

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the winter of 1937, Percival takes Credence to his childhood home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I'm not gonna write about Wizarding World War II  
> Also me: Man, fuck fascism though
> 
> This was written for a whole bunch of prompts on Tumblr requesting housewife Credence.

The Graves family home is not anything one would ever notice, buried as it is in the heavy woods.

“This used to be farmland,” Percival tells him as he clears away thorny underbrush with the wave of his wand. The vines and brambles rearrange themselves behind Percival as they make their way.

The house itself has a sloping, thatched roof, gone green with moss. A small, brown sparrow flutters away from the roof as they approach. The door to the home — set between crumbling stones and weathered, grey wood — is incredibly small. Credence has to bow rather low to get into the house itself.

“Most everyone in those days farmed,” Percival tells him. “I suppose my family wished to blend in with their Puritan neighbors."   


“It was the Burning Times,” Credence says. “It would benefit them not to draw attention to themselves.”

“Yes,” Percival says, “exactly that.”

Like the house, the furniture in the single room is small and simple and aged.

“I suppose that’s also why they had so many children,” Percival says. 

At the wave of his hand, a small door opens in the floor beside the stone hearth and chimney.

“The rest of the house is below,” he says, and Credence follows.

He descends, at first, into total darkness. Percival casts a simple  _ lumos _ that sends strange shadows in all directions. Credence takes his own wand from the narrowest pocket inside his coat. His own version of the spell floods the space twenty feet around them with light. But even that is not enough to illuminate the room they have stepped into.

Anxiety fills Credence’s throat.

“Percival,” he says, “what is this?”

“Overcompensation, I believe,” he says. “One moment, if I can get one lamp lit the rest of them should follow suit.”

He takes Credence by the hand and leads him some great distance to a wall. 

Their shoes leave marks on the dusty floor. Finally, Percival lights one ensconced lamp on the wall and the room quickly illuminates. Credence looks around and his jaw drops slightly. He has now seen Scottish castles and Indian temples and the underwater cities built by Grecian sirens. He has travelled four continents and wandered the streets of more cities than he can count on both his hands.

The cavernous room before him, despite so much dust and cobwebs, leaves him shocked. 

Plaster roses creep up the walls and begin to bloom now that there is light in the room. The statues at the top of towering fireplaces turn and look at them. There are paintings on the walls so large the well dressed men and women within are easily taller than Credence.

“I apologize for the mess,” Percival says. “My closest cousins are uninterested in the manor and its upkeep can be very expensive. I admit I haven’t been here in, well, it has been twenty years or more.”

The paintings seem to be rising from slumber and brushing off their clothes. They look at Percival and Credence with curiosity. A young girl in a plain dress stands before a house with a tall, thatched roof. She gathers her skirt and runs to the edge of a wooden fence, waving at them.

Credence waves back, so as to not be rude.

“If we are now in need of a place to centralize our operations, to stockpile materials and whatnot, I thought, why not here?” Percival says. “I’ve certainly got the space.”

“Yes,” Credence says.

He is already thinking how grateful he is for magic.

“Well,” Percival says, “let me show you the rest of the house, then.”

There is no human way that Credence could clean such a massive space to a habitable state. Not without magic.

It takes over a week of days even with magic, because there are so many, many rooms. Most are bedrooms, which are simple. He sweep the cobwebs out of the corners and airs out the sheets. He spends a lot of time catching spiders and releasing them out into the woods, which takes a lot of walking and climbing stairs.

“I’m sorry,” Percival says. “My family was a bit paranoid and I’m not willing to remove the ward against apparition, not in these days.”

Credence really does not mind. 

He tries to talk the family of mice living in the library into going outdoors of their own volition, but in the end he tells Percival that the mice will have to stay.

The best day of this cleaning business is perhaps the last, when Credence takes on the entry ballroom. What at first intimidated him, Credence realizes is quite manageable. The floor is completely open and bare. There is sparse furniture around the edges of the room, a forgotten set of armor — “My mother was fond of that sort of thing, the age of the Round Table” — and a woman’s sewing set. 

Credence makes very little progress until he looks up at the massive, brass chandelier that hangs from the very, very high ceiling. It has so many metal flowers and birds holding candles that never drop wax onto the wood floors. 

With a thought, Credence unmakes himself and flies up to the chandelier. His body re-forms amongst its brass boughs. He holds onto the heavy chain which attaches the whole business to the ceiling. It only tilts a little from Credence’s weight.

The paintings all stare. Some of them look quite distressed, but the girl in the plain dress covers her mouth and seems to laugh. The paintings, Percival says, have been silent for many decades. 

From this vantage point, no amount of dust is safe from Credence’s wand.

From there, he can also wash and scrub the wood, then polish it. He barely has to do more than tell the room how to look before it’s simple sparkling. The paintings look impressed.

Credence reclines in the chandelier, feeling quite clever and accomplished, when Percival arrives.

“I have been looking for you everywhere,” he says. “How did you get up there?”

Credence looks down at him and lets himself dissolve. He rains down to the beautifully clean wood floor and settles down heels first.

“Oh,” Percival says. “Of course.”

“Are you going to acknowledge my work?” Credence asks, tucking his wand away in his coat.

“Yes,” Percival says. “Of course. It looks amazing, Credence, I don’t know why you’ve put in so much effort, but it looks —”

The man stops and frowns. 

“What’s the matter?” Credence asks. He looks about, but he’s certain that he cleaned everything in sight.

“It hasn’t looked like this since I was a child,” Percival says. “That’s all.”

“Well, I would hope you lived in a home without spiderwebs hanging from every ceiling,” Credence says. 

“Thank you,” Percival says. “You didn’t have to do all of this. I’m not even sure how you managed it all.”

“Magic,” Credence says, with the corner of his mouth rising a bit.

Percival laughs. “I was being serious, Credence. I would never have done any of this. I’ve been thinking of… other things.”

“I know,” Credence says. “But this is your home and it ought to be livable. You should be able to focus on your work.”

“I ought to be spending my time with you before you leave again,” Percival says. He scowls in a way that Credence wants to soothe away with a kiss.

“Instead, I’m treating you like some kind of servant,” he continues.

Credence crosses the floor in far fewer steps than he thought it would take.

“Credence,” Percival says, as though he’s surprised to find him so close.

Credence puts his hand to Percival’s cheek. He knows it is not the years so much as the war which has carved lines into the man’s face and added silver to his hair. Credence worries sometimes that Percival no longer believes him when he calls him handsome, no matter whether he writes it in his letters or says it in bed.

“This is your home,” Credence says.

“I haven’t lived here in ages,” Percival objects. “No one has.”

“Well, that’s going to chance,” Credence says. “You’re changing it.”

He traces the shape of Percival’s brow down the point of his nose. He is too close to see properly how much Percival is frowning, but he can tell from his forehead that is.

“I’m helping,” Credence says. “You should thank me.”

“Thank you,” Percival says.

That is not all that Credence meant, of course, but he kisses Percival lightly on the mouth all the same.

“You’re welcome, my love.”

Later that night, before they eat dinner together in the kitchen — because the Graves family dining room fits twenty or more and is a bit too much for only two men — Credence gathers together a bit of roasted potato with some onion and parsnip. He cups his right hand under his left and carries it over to where Graves sits looking over maps of the shipping lanes between America and Europe. 

Some ports are marked with a familiar triangle that, to this day, makes Credence feel as though something horrible is crawling underneath his skin. He knows exactly what that thing is, of course.

“Percival,” he says, holding up his fork. “Try this.”

After only a moment of confusion, Percival opens his mouth and lets Credence feed him just one bite. The man chews and then smiles.

“Delicious as always, darling,” he says. 

“Thank you,” Credence says, turning back to finish cooking.

Cooking, like cleaning, serves as a solid distraction from the thing which looms over Percival Graves. It looms over everyone in Credence’s life, but he knows it hangs about Percival’s shoulders always like a heavy coat. It weighs upon Credence as well, but — for now — he has been told not to draw attention to himself. 

Though it chafes at times, Credence does not wish to test whether he can cheat death and escape Gellert Grindelwald a second time. 

Unless he had to, Credence thinks, while Percival eats his dinner without looking. On the map, a few tiny ships are headed to Europe and even more are headed toward America. 

They say that Grindelwald has a prison where he keeps his enemies — not only his enemies, but their families, their friends, whole bloodlines. Only those without magic are spared by a quick death. 

The ships that leave America carry weapons and potions and other potent things.

But the ships leaving Europe carry terrified witches and wizards, who must pretend to be other people and hope their transfigured papers are enough. Even then, there are plenty of people in America who think such a prison is not a terrible idea as long as they don’t end up there. These are not even Grindelwald’s faithful, only people who think that America is big enough already and it is so difficult to keep witches hidden already and aren’t there enough problems here  _ already _ , must we go borrowing trouble from Europe?

As though the trouble hasn’t been here for ten years, since the winter of 1926. 

If Credence thinks too long about this, he cannot keep himself together. So he cleans a hundred-year-old manor and cooks roasted grouse and vegetables. He keeps busy.

He tries not to feel constrained or useless. He tries not to think about how good it feels when Tina teaches him new, more violent hexes. “Just in case,” she says. “If anything happens, you should be able to protect yourself.”

It’s harder to distract himself when he can’t distract Percival.

“Must you do that at the table?” Credence asks.

Percival looks up and the map folds up without another word.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he looks truly chastened.

Credence takes a bite of his dinner and chews it forcefully.

“I didn’t know that it mattered to you,” Percival says. 

They eat in silence for many long minutes, but at least Percival looks at his food. And at Credence.

“You are an incredible cook,” he says. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“It’s nothing,” Credence says.

“You know it isn’t,” Percival says. “Neither is cleaning this whole dreary place by yourself.”

“It’s not dreary,” Credence says. He is fidgeting with his napkin in his lap.

“Not now it isn’t,” Percival says. “I haven’t thanked you nearly enough.”

Credence puts down his fork and sits up.

“There are certainly ways you could thank me, if you wanted,” he says.

Percival raises an eyebrow at him. “And what do you mean by that?”

“I know you’ve been up in the night,” Credence says. “It is very important work, I know. But I think we could both use one night — just one night.”

“Ah,” Percival says, looking down at his plate.

“If we both must suffer from sleeplessness,” Credence adds, “I can think of many ways I’d rather pass the hours than with both of us apart, worrying about everything.”

“You make a convincing argument, Credence,” Percival says.

“Thank you,” he says.

“So tonight, then?” Percival asks.

“Well I did clean an entire ballroom by myself today,” Credence says, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I might be a little tired.”

Percival snorts with laughter and almost smiles. Credence cannot help himself, he fully smiles in return.

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously, you can hit me up at jeffgoldblumsmulletinthe90s.tumblr.com


End file.
